


19 1/2 Weeks

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [10]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Begging, Desperation, Established Relationship, Hormones, Love, Loving Banter, M/M, Marking, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Pregnancy Kink, Skype Sex, touch of breeding kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Letting Ronan travel during Lovett’s second trimester was an error in judgment.





	19 1/2 Weeks

Since the beginning of Lovett’s pregnancy, Ronan’s been trying his best to stay in LA. His usual travel schedule is on hold as much as he can manage, but this trip, they’d agreed, couldn’t wait. He’d scheduled a couple of talks anyway; it made sense, they decided, that he do some story-chasing travel at the same time, instead of trying to fly back in the middle.

Lovett knows that’s what they agreed to. It just doesn’t change how he feels, now, after three weeks of just him and Pundit and The Alien. ("I don't think I agreed we could call it that," Ronan keeps saying. "The decision's been made," Lovett keeps replying.)

Lovett has been telling Ronan he's doing fine, it's fine, but somewhere in those three weeks, his libido kicked _up_. 

He'd thought he knew what hormonal meant, by now. He was entirely wrong. When he's getting weird, teenage hard-ons in the grocery checkout because there's a Men's Health on the rack between the Inquirer and US Weekly—that's not something he was dealing with in the first trimester, that's for sure.

The first trimester was mostly napping, and having to ban anyone from eating hot dogs near him in case he puked. This is—this is a sort of low aching need, fucking constantly, popping a boner from one of Ronan's instagram stories and having to hunch awkwardly over his desk until it goes away.

He imessages Ronan, _you need to stop being so hot, it's destroying my work ethic_ but then regrets it. Ronan is definitely not going to get the frustration vibe from that; he's just going to think it's a compliment. Lovett needs to more fully express his dissatisfaction and irritation.

He doesn't get a response from Ronan until later, when he's home, which is _fine_ —their schedules are insane—but, fuck, it feels like a long time coming. Lovett's more aware of his dick than he has been in years.

He ignores the message, which is bland and uninteresting, at least in his current state, and clicks through to facetime him. "You'd better be fucking alone," Lovett mutters to himself while the request is pinging over to Ronan. "You'd better be in a goddamn hotel room."

Ronan picks up, smiling, reclining on a—thank fuck—on a hotel bed, arm behind his head. "Hey," he says, and Lovett has to sit down. This is ridiculous, embarrassing, but there's not much he can do about it now. This is as much Ronan's fault as it is Lovett's, at least. Maybe more. Maybe, like, two thirds. That seems right. 

“I want to be _very_ clear that text was not a compliment. Your face is unacceptable. It’s outright cruel, is what it is.”

Ronan is, to his credit, pretty used to Lovett. “Sorry about that. Let me make it up to you?”

“If you think this is going to be anything other than a mediocre stopgap, let me assure you that is not the case. Until you get back here and actually fuck me, we’re in a fight, buddy.”

"Gosh," Ronan says, mouth quirking. "A fight. How can I make it up to you?"

"I just said," Lovett says. He slumps further down on the couch; the blinds are already shut, because he's not an idiot. "You're gonna have to come back and fuck me. Anything else is just, just, uh, stalling."

"I guess you don't need me then," Ronan says, and Lovett makes an outraged noise. Ronan laughs. "Take your pants off, Jon, is that better?"

“It is _not_ ,” Lovett hisses, but he sets the phone down and strips, anyway, and something in his chest feels looser now he’s got Ronan with him—sort of—even if none of this is going to fix his real craving.

He picks the phone back up to see Ronan’s taken his own shirt off. Maybe the rest, too, off camera. “Look at you,” Lovett says, grumpily. “Not revving up all of _your_ hormones with a baby, are we?”

“Jon,” Ronan says, and it’s painfully earnest, more than they ever are. “You always rev me up.”

It does something to Lovett, something warm and pleased in his chest. He could blame it on hormones, if he wanted to be flippant, but he doesn't say anything, and Ronan's expression warms too, clearly getting it. "Yeah, well, of course I do," Lovett says. "Who could resist this?"

"Exactly," Ronan says, smiling, refusing to let him turn it into a joke. "God, you're—you need to touch yourself for me, Jon? Is that what you need?"

“We’ve discussed what I need,” Lovett tells him, but then he’s giving in, dropping the jokes. “Yes. Fuck, yeah, you can’t even—I got hard at _work_ , Ronan. And in the _grocery store_. Like a teenager. It’s been—yes.”

“Let me see you,” Ronan tells him. “Want to watch you stroke your cock for me.”

They’ve had years of practice at this; they’ve both long lost their blushes, their early careful euphemisms. They get _filthy_ , these days. Jon can tell Ronan’s just getting started.

Lovett hasn't thought this through, doesn't have anywhere to prop up his phone, so he just reaches, one handed, down for his cock, strokes it a couple of times like Ronan asks, keeps the phone on his face. The first touch of his hand is—is—

"Fuck," Ronan says. "Oh, fuck, Jon, look at you."

Lovett just pants. Words are definitely beyond him, right now.

“You’re getting me so fucking hard,” Ronan says, and shows him. More than just the shirt came off, then.

The sight of Ronan’s cock never, ever gets old for Lovett; call him stereotypical, but he just fucking loves it.

“Wish I could blow you,” he tells Ronan, finding a few words after all.

“Yeah, baby,” Ronan says. “As soon as I get to LA I’m gonna lay you out and fuck your throat.”

Lovett makes a truly undignified noise. What's also undignified is how long he's going to last—or not last. He's still stroking himself kind of slowly, like Ronan expects, and it's not enough, nowhere near enough. "Yeah," he pants, "yeah, you should—you should do what you want—make me t-take it—" fuck, fuck "—Ronan, I—"

"Faster, baby," Ronan tells him, his voice going hoarse the way it does sometimes when he's really turned on. "Come on, fuck your pretty fist for me.”

“You’re gonna come so fast for me, aren’t you? You weren’t kidding about being desperate, were you. You need it so much. Need my cock in you. Need my mouth on you—“ Ronan pauses, maybe because Lovett’s heavy breathing is threatening to drown him out.

Lovett can’t even see Ronan properly anymore. Ronan’s giving him nice options—face, chest, cock, in a little rotation—but focusing on any sense other than touch is increasingly impossible.

“‘M gonna,” Lovett gasps.

"Yes," Ronan says, and the camera comes back to his face, expression intent, eyes dark even through the phone. "Yes, you are, come on, come for me," and Lovett shivers, and pants, and comes all over himself. He jerks himself through it, gasping, and when his brain kicks vaguely back online he can hear Ronan's breath catching, the slick sounds of him jerking off too.

He forces his eyes open, wants to see it. Ronan’s not exactly holding the phone steady at this point, but Lovett gets enough—his gorgeous face, twisted up with want; the way his abs tighten as he strains towards orgasm; flashes of his hand whipping along the length of his cock. Lovett’s seen this a thousand times, like this or in person; he’s still transfixed. “You’re so hot,” he groans, and it comes out like a complaint. He can already feel he’s going to get hard again.

Ronan comes, a slow rolling shift from frantic into frozen, and then the relaxation and the glint of come on his chest where the camera’s been angled, forgotten. “You have to come home,” Lovett tells him, as soon as he thinks Ronan can hear the outside world again.

Ronan sighs, and tilts the camera back to his face. “I will, babe. Soon as I can.” He stretches. “I need to eat and do some work. Can I call you back in a couple of hours? Pet Pundit for me. Pet your belly for me.”

Lovett looks down at it, the visible proof of it. “Yeah. The alien says hi.”

“Hi back,” Ronan tells him, grinning his best relaxed, post-orgasmic grin.

Lovett goodbyes him off the phone, makes himself a snack, and jerks off again. Ronan _really_ needs to get back to LA.

***

Ronan doesn't get back for another few days, during which Lovett jerks off with increasing frustration and also cries at a commercial when a puppy is shut out of the kitchen. Ronan texts him from the plane and Lovett could frankly cry about that too just out of sheer relief.

He texts back, _Please drink whatever caffeine and take whatever else you need to be alert and fuck-ready when you walk in. This is not a joke._

Ronan texts him back a picture of a diet coke can, sitting with the tab popped open next to an airport cup of coffee. Lovett rolls his eyes, but feels pleased. _Overachiever_ , he sends, and then Ronan has to turn off his phone.

They've been doing long distance for years, but Lovett thinks this is the longest a flight has ever felt.

Ronan texts him again from LAX. _Want me to stop and pick you up anything on the way?_ Lovett only has time to glare at it before he gets the follow-up: _Don’t worry, I’m kidding._

Lovett contemplates getting himself ready, but he misses Ronan’s fingers, and anyway it’s hard for him to reach, lately.

When Ronan lets him know his cab is nearby, Lovett takes Pundit out to pee and makes sure she's got enough water, so when Ronan arrives, they can—he can—

The door opens. "Honey, I'm home," Ronan calls, always with a hint of irony at it, but it never fails to catch at Lovett's heart, his chest. Ronan's home. Thank _fuck_.

He doesn’t say _missed you_ or _love you_ ; he says “Great, get it up.” He’ll do the sappy stuff later.

Ronan just laughs. “Can I put my bags down? Can I say hi to Pundit? Can we go upstairs?” Pundit’s dancing around his ankles, barking.

“Yes, no, yes,” Lovett tells him. “You’ll see her after. Get your ass in gear, Farrow.”

Ronan walks over and kisses him, takes him by the upper arms and just _kisses_ him, hard and deep, no teasing, and Lovett just sort of... melts into it, Ronan's mouth hot and firm on his, Ronan's strong body against him.

"Upstairs," Lovett croaks. "Upstairs right now."

Ronan smiles at him, and makes an “after you” feature. Lovett grabs his hand out of the air and drags him towards the stairs.

Upstairs, Ronan drops his bags and turns toward Lovett, hands going straight to the soft rounding of Lovett’s belly. “Hi,” Ronan tells the belly. “I missed you.”

“Commune with the alien later,” Lovett says. “Although this is weirdly turning me on, actually.”

"Yeah?" Ronan cups his hands further, following the curve of Lovett's belly. That's—that's their kid in there, Lovett thinks. They made that together. "You like that I like this? That I did this to you?"

Lovett shudders, enough that his balance feels shaky. He grabs for Ronan’s shoulder to keep himself upright. “You can’t just _say_ things like that,” he protests, hearing how weak and breathy his voice sounds. “At least, you can’t just say things like that while you’re upright and fully dressed.”

“Deal,” Ronan says, grinning, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Lovett scrabbles to yank his own t-shirt over his head, emerging flushed, knowing his hair is everywhere, and Ronan, down to his underwear and frankly offensively handsome, steers him to the bed. He maps his hands over the bump again, possessive and warm, and sweet fuck that is doing it for Lovett. He's so hard, again, and he groans properly when Ronan reaches down and cups him through his sweats.

"Fucking—" Lovett's brain feels scrambled with need "—just, would you fucking—"

“Yeah,” Ronan tells him, and urges him down onto the bed, climbs up over him. “Gonna give it to you. You need it so much, don’t you?”

Lovett has a split second of wanting to deny it, wanting to be contrary or to hide the desperation, pointlessly. It’s gone in a flash. He doesn’t have to hide with Ronan. “So much. Missed you so much—missed your _dick_ so much.”

Ronan laughs, and leans back so Lovett can watch him palm himself through his boxer-briefs. “Yeah? You need this in you?”

"So fucking much," Lovett says, committing to honesty. "So much. Get over here and get in me."

Ronan leans over him, bracing all his weight on his arms, muscles cording just in Lovett's peripheral vision, and it's so _good_ , so different from jerking off alone, surrounded by Ronan and how Ronan _smells_ and—

—and it's just not enough. Lovett's hips are jerking up, seeking out friction. "Ronan," he manages, and Ronan gets it at once.

“I’ve got you,” Ronan tells him, climbing back down and peeling Lovett’s sweats and boxers off, Lovett lifting his hips with a grunt to help. Ronan comes back with lube—Lovett swears it’s fucking haloed, it looks so good in his hand.

“Should we move?” Ronan says. “Do you feel dizzy?”

“I’m not _that_ pregnant,” Lovett mutters.

"Let me know, okay?" Ronan says, ignoring him, and Lovett would argue just for the sake of it but Ronan is slicking up his fingers, reaching down between Lovett's legs and— " _Fuck_ —" touching him, fucking finally, rubbing gently at his hole, intent.

Ronan’s maybe paid some attention to Lovett’s frantic texts over the last couple of weeks, because he’s not teasing at all. As soon as he’s satisfied with the lube allocation, he’s pushing one slim finger in.

It’s fucking ridiculous how good it feels. It’s like everything is amped up by a factor of a hundred, like he’s a teenager again, shocked by what nerve endings can do.

Lovett groans, pushing down into it. "Yeah," he manages, hands curling into fists by his sides. "Yeah, fucking finally, keep—"

"I've got you," Ronan tells him, adding another finger, working Lovett the way he needs. "Lie there and take it, baby. I know what you need."

It's so _fucking_ hot the way Ronan talks in bed sometimes, toppy and clear, and Lovett's dick twitches. He wants to wrap his hand around it, jerk himself off some, but Ronan hasn't said he can and Lovett... kind of wants that.

It's easier—or, no, but it feels _better_ if he doesn't ask. If he hopes Ronan will notice that he isn't touching himself, and tell him whether or not he can. He knows it's a self-defeating impulse, sometimes, but he still does it.

He can be showy about it, at least. He stretches his fingers out, re-fists them, rolls his wrists. It's show, but it's real, too—the way he aches to touch himself, to touch Ronan. The way it's easier to hold off if he's doing something else with his hands.

Ronan says, "I see we're doing the non-communicative thing again," but he chases it with a kiss, leaning over Lovett, so it's not too pointed. Lovett can live with that.

"I'm great at communicating," Lovett says, because it seems like a point worth mentioning, and Ronan crooks his fingers, raises an eyebrow, says, "Oh yeah?"

Lovett hisses, everything building and sensitive. "Yeah," he says, his voice cracking.

“Because you’re so needy,” Ronan says, and curls his fingers again so Lovett has to stop breathing for a moment to just feel it, “I’m gonna let you get away with it this time. Keep your hands where they are.”

Lovett shuts his eyes, swallows. Obeys.

It suddenly seems impossible to keep his hands still. Ronan keeps opening him up in this practiced way, sure and steady, and Lovett squirms down onto his fingers, can't help that at all. It feels so fucking good to finally have something inside him, to have Ronan with him, holding him there and working him open and taking him out of his head.

“Promise me you won’t stop if I come,” he asks Ronan, and plants a foot on the bed so he can push more firmly onto Ronan’s fingers. “You have to keep going.”

“I’ve got you, babe. I’m gonna make sure you get thoroughly—“ Ronan’s gaze turns intense, almost predatory “—utterly, completely worn out.”

"Yeah," Lovett gasps, and shoves his hips up again, getting Ronan's fingers where he needs them, again and again. Ronan knows how to take him apart, learned fast and went from there, lets Lovett be his worst, most vulnerable self and puts him back together again. Lovett's dick twitches, hard.

“This is just what you felt like the night I knocked you up,” Ronan says, conversationally, like he doesn’t know it’s the hottest fucking thing he could possibly have said.

Lovett—and he will deny it later, on pain of death—squeals. He pushes again, fists his hands tighter, begs with his whole body for _more, please, more_.

"You're going to come for me now, okay?" Ronan says, still in that same killer conversational tone. "Give me one now, sweetheart, and then I'm going to flip you over and fuck you like you need." 

Lovett makes an even less dignified sound and bucks his hips up, fucking the air like he’ll magically find the friction he wants. He’s straining, trying for it, and then Ronan says, gently, “Okay,” and finds Lovett’s cock with his hand and then his mouth.

Lovett comes, almost before he fully feels Ronan’s lips on him. He holds his breath through it, watching Ronan’s gorgeous face, the way Ronan’s eyes fall shut as he focuses on swallowing.

Lovett collapses back to the bed, shuddering, and Ronan doesn't pull away, moves with him, keeps him in his mouth until it's almost too much. When he pulls back, he's breathing hard. "Good," he says, "that's it, let me give it to you."

“Sure,” Lovett says, weakly. “No problem. Anytime. You just, uh, you do you.” He pauses, laughs. “Or me. Rather. You do me.”

Ronan laughs, too, and kisses the curve of Lovett’s belly. “Oh, I’m gonna.”

"Yeah?" Lovett's dick twitches again. Pregnancy hormones are ridiculous, this whole thing is so ridiculous. Ronan isn't allowed to leave LA again until Lovett isn't pregnant anymore. He's going to make it a rule.

"Yeah," Ronan says, and kisses the curve of his belly again. "Turn over, babe," and he lightly smacks the outside of Lovett's thigh.

Lovett looks forward, someday, to fucking face-to-face again, Ronan looming over him. It’s not even his favourite position, but being denied it has added a frisson of forbidden-fruit charge.

This, though—he does want to be fucking pounded, today (and tomorrow and maybe again later today, because these hormones are intense), and Ronan behind him will do that job nicely.

Ronan eases his fingers out and Lovett makes a miserable noise, entirely unbidden, at the loss, clumsily rolling onto his side so he can get up on his hands and knees. "Put your fucking dick in me," he says. The breathlessness probably lends him authority.

Ronan, because he's a cruel, withholding jerk, kisses the center of his back, instead, and runs gentle hands over his hips. "Listen, Farrow, you can be sappy after—"

"Calm down," Ronan murmurs, words warm on Lovett's skin. "It's not good for the baby for you to get so agitated."

Ronan knows perfectly well that telling him to calm down only makes him _more_ agitated, but knowing that his reactions are predictable makes him contrary, and somehow what he ends up on is forcing himself to calm down. He takes a few deep breaths, and sinks down onto his elbows, grabbing a couple of pillows to rest his torso on. "Seriously, though," he says, because Ronan seems perfectly happy to just kiss the dip of his spine and let his cock brush, teasingly, along Lovett's thigh.

It's slick on Lovett's thigh, and Lovett groans, burying his face in his arms. It's—he almost can't believe he needs it so much, still, again.

Ronan palms his ass, kisses the base of his spine. "You look so fucking good," he says. "You look—we did this together, we _did_ this to you."

Lovett groans again, pushing back into Ronan's clever hands. "Get _in_ me," he says, feeling like he's cracking open. Ronan's so good to him. Lovett—Lovett loves him so much. Fuck. He needs to get fucked, and get his brain back on track.

“We made you insatiable,” Ronan tells him, like any of this is _helping_ , but then he’s lining up, pressing in. Lovett catches his breath, struggles not to shove back onto Ronan, to wait for it.

Ronan sounds almost as desperate as Lovett feels when he whispers, “You feel so good, opening up for me.”

"Fuck," Lovett says, wholehearted, and Ronan pushes in further, going so slowly Lovett wants to scream. "Fuck, _fuck_ , would you—fucking—" He doesn't know what he's trying to say. He's going to end up begging, he can feel it.

“Shh,” Ronan says, petting down Lovett’s back. It should be infuriating. It should, by rights, make Lovett ditch him for the bathtub and the long-handled dildo one of his friends with a baby sent with a note about how much he’ll appreciate it in the later months of pregnancy.

It doesn’t. He takes another deep breath, sinking further into the pillows. Ronan gives him a little more, and then pulls back what feels like the whole fucking way. “Please,” Lovett says, quietly. “Ronan, you—I need it so much.”

"I know," Ronan says, unsteadily. "I know you do. It's so—it's so hot, Jon, that you need it so much." He pushes back in again, not gently this time, but holding Lovett still by his hips. It's so _good_ , the sudden feeling of being _full_ , fucking finally, Ronan's thighs against the backs of Lovett's, oh, fuck.

Lovett can feel Ronan's breath on the back of his neck, and that's almost as good as the hands on his hips and the cock splitting him open. There's so much the bathtub and a sex toy can't give him that Ronan can—the warmth of him all down Lovett's back, and the way Lovett can't decide the pace, has to take what Ronan gives him.

That's one of the best parts: Ronan deciding what Lovett can have, when he can have it, and nothing Lovett says will change his mind. Lovett can give himself up to Ronan's hands and Ronan will carefully, methodically, take him apart.

"You can't leave LA anymore," he says, and it probably isn't audible, but he doesn't care, because Ronan's giving him real strokes now, deep and thorough and not fast, but not cruelly slow, either. Lovett shuts his eyes and tilts his hips up, not trying to fight or aid Ronan's rhythm, just shifting the angle so it—fuck—so it's exactly, exactly what he needs.

He's actually biting his lip, face rolled into the pillows, Ronan's hands steady on his hips. It's so—it's so fucking good, it's so fucking—he's hardening up again fast, cock heavy between his legs, and Ronan is giving it to him so perfectly, feels huge inside him.

He thinks idly about shifting to get a hand on himself, then remembers, cheeks heating, Ronan’s order. He’s not sure it stands, but he’d like it to. He’d like to—to have to beg for it.

He’s closer just thinking about it, and he grunts into the pillow, Ronan’s cock hitting him just the same but feeling intensely better, suddenly.

Ronan must get it, must hear him, because he says, "Not yet, babe, you can take more than that," and Lovett groans again, nerves jangling. This is what he needs: Ronan with him, behind him, stroking a hand down his sweaty back.

He wants—if he’s going to take more, he wants Ronan to talk. “Tell me—tell me more about knocking me up.”

He knows Ronan thinks it’s hot, but he isn’t expecting the sudden stutter of Ronan’s hips, the pause to breathe heavily. “God,” Ronan mutters. “Give me a little warning, Lovett.”

Lovett shoves back, can't help it, and savors Ronan's breath catching again. "No fun in that. Tell me how you knocked me up. How I'm—I'm—" Ronan starts moving again, slower than before; Lovett's throat is tight with need "—how you fucked me, how I—needed it."

"Yeah," Ronan says, rough. He must be remembering it too, months ago on a sticky night, Lovett shaking and shaking with pent-up arousal, Ronan eating him out first until he begged for Ronan's dick, hands fisted desperately at his sides.

They'd planned—it hadn't been the first time they'd tried, or anything, but they're both sure, completely fucking sure, that was the night. It just _felt_ like something, Ronan staring down into his eyes, both of them serious and sappy and earnest in the way it's hard for either of them to be without cracking a joke. It had been _special_.

Lovett doesn't want to hear about that part. He wants to hear the dirty spin on it, the way they get off on the idea after the fact. "Tell me," he demands, again.

Ronan strokes a hand onto the side of his belly. "Put this in you," Ronan says, and his voice is gritty, as low as it ever gets. "Spread you open and filled you up, baby, didn't I? Made you take it."

"Fuck," Lovett manages, clutching the pillows under him harder, and Ronan keeps going, his hand so gentle on Lovett's belly in stark contrast to the practiced, uncompromising way he's thrusting into Lovett, just the way Lovett has been craving.

"Put you on your back and fucked a baby into you," Ronan continues. His breathing is coming ragged; Lovett's cock twitches, desperately. "Kept you where I wanted you and got you open."

Lovett thinks, _be careful what you wish for_ , but this is exactly what he needed, Ronan’s voice and Ronan’s cock and Ronan’s hands.

“Filled you up like I’m gonna fill you up now,” Ronan tells him. “Like I’m gonna fill you up tomorrow and every fucking day, because that’s how much you need it, don’t you, baby? You need it all—the—time—“ His hips punctuate the words, hard and certain.

Lovett cries out properly, Ronan sliding just where he needs it, everything lighting up. If he doesn't touch himself soon, he might—there's a more than zero chance he could just shoot off untouched, squirming and messy over the bed, and although Ronan hasn't told him not to, Lovett doesn't want—he wants to do just what he's been told. What Ronan wants. What they both want.

"I need it," he says, voice cracking. "I need you."

“Fuck, you’re so close,” Ronan says, voice losing its steadiness. “You’re so—get yourself off for me now. Want to feel you coming on my dick, Jon.”

Lovett’s shoving his hand under himself before Ronan’s done talking, gasping as his hand wraps around his cock. “That—yes, yes,” Lovett pants, not quite sure what he’s even responding to but needing to express something.

He shoves erratically back, and then, helpless, into his own grip, cock leaking in his hand. Ronan's rhythm is hitching now too, his breathing going strained; neither of them have long left in them. Later, maybe tomorrow, lovett's going to suck Ronan's dick, get his mouth full and feel Ronan shudder and tense and come on his tongue. He's going to ride Ronan till his thighs are sore and neither of them can speak. He's going to—but he can't think any more about going to, about anything other than this, Ronan thrusting deep inside him, hands on his hips and careful on his rounded belly, telling Lovett to take it, that's it, he's taking it just fucking right.

Lovett's gonna—oh, fuck, he's gonna— "Ronan," he pants, frantic, "I've gotta—"

"Come for me," Ronan says, immediately, "do it, you need it, you have to," and Lovett does, striping his hand and the bed, groaning louder than he means to, eyes stinging, barely able to breathe.

Ronan, generous now that Lovett’s in a delicate condition, gently pulls out, and Lovett hears the wet slaps of him jerking off. “Christ, Lovett, you’re so—you’re so hot for me, you’re, I want you so much—“

When he comes, words turning into syllables that don’t quite fit together, it stripes Lovett’s back, and Ronan’s hand follows. Lovett hears the grunt and feels the drip of Ronan squeezing the last of it out onto Lovett’s skin. Maybe Ronan wasn’t acting out of pure generosity. Maybe he wanted this, his mark on Lovett.

“So much for filling me up,” Lovett says, just to hear Ronan laugh. He gets a soft swat to his ass, too, just enough to give him a tiny aftershock.

“Smartass,” Ronan says. His fingers are still tracing through the come, rubbing it into Lovett’s skin. “You look so good like this, babe.”

“You should do the front,” Lovett says, and it leaves his mouth as a joke but it enters his ears as a suddenly, outrageously sexy idea. “Come all over my belly. Mark where you, uh—“

“Jesus,” Ronan says. “You really are insatiable right now.”

"No duh," Lovett says, into the pillows. It feels like the most accurate response. "I blame you, honestly. And your face."

Ronan laughs again, and taps his flank more lightly this time. "Turn over for me."

Lovett is too fucked out to think about any of the practical, messy consequences. He turns over, propping himself at an angle, and Ronan takes a breath, and smears his wet hand over Lovett's round, firm bump.

Lovett's just gotten fucked; he's come twice inside an hour. Inside half an hour. He's _not_ getting hard again, but he is, definitely, getting a thrill out of this. "Insatiable," Ronan says again, like he can see it on Lovett's face. Probably he can. He keeps his hand there, just feeling the swollen skin. "My insatiable Lovett." He takes a deep breath and sighs it out, and Lovett can see, suddenly, how tired he is. How contented, too, but mostly tired, off a long flight and a long fuck.

"Come in the shower with me," Lovett suggests. "I'll wash your back. And then you can go to sleep and Pundit and I can man the PS4 for a while."

Ronan keeps rubbing circles onto Lovett's belly, slow and rhythmic. It's both incredibly sweet and incredibly erotic. Lovett isn't going to think too hard about that, or at least not right now. He's going to get Ronan in the shower and wash all the plane off him; they can use the fancy lather stuff Emily got them that Lovett saves for bad days. There's room in the shower for two. He wants that, the two—three, he guesses, which is bizarre—of them warm in the shower, washing each other clean.

Ronan is smiling, gorgeous and Lovett's. "Yeah," he says. "I'd like that."


End file.
